


The Sea of Spontaneity

by penguin_parties



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 08:57:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penguin_parties/pseuds/penguin_parties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Niall is all-around wonderful.</p><p>Harry is too thoughtful for his own good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sea of Spontaneity

   Niall is a lot about spontaneity. An abandoned broom backstage, for instance, sends a spark of creativity into the circuits and wiring of Niall’s brain and, to him, creates endless comedic opportunities. One opportunity presented, for example, would be to bring the broom onstage and muck around with it, much to the enjoyment of observing fans and possibly his goofy band mates. But not only is Niall spontaneous, he is honest with his feelings. And a combination of these two traits can ultimately go either a really good way or a really bad way. About forty percent of the time, it goes the really bad way.

   “How are you all doing tonight?” Niall’s question echoes the stadium and swoops in an extra dose of shrieks and squeals from the audience. Harry takes a seat at his usual place for the next song and allows himself a second to embrace the atmosphere and appreciate it. He looks out into a sea of bright lights and pubescent girls, waves out to nobody in particular, and flashes a star-quality, swoon-inducing smile with accompanying darling dimples.

   Now Harry, what with his sudden bursts of cunning wit (which can sometimes become the inspiration for various Instagram uploads and Vine recordings), is decently enthusiastic and natural towards spontaneity. Unfortunately, however, a truthful tongue in regards to his personal emotions is not exactly a skill he easily obtains and commands. Practice and courage are dire requirements to be had in Harry’s neural inventory before any spontaneous confessions of clawing, desperate inner desires are to be in action. In such a case as the one Harry is in, this may take a while to surface.

   Before Harry knows it, Niall is seated a few feet away with a guitar situated in his lap like it belongs nowhere else. Strummed strings evoke gentle chords that caress and lull the heart and Harry feels the effect like a stoner to their fix. If it were up to Harry, Niall would never be allowed to stop pressing music into the air.

   Niall has a really nice voice. Harry notices it too often. He also thinks too often of cracking open a jar and within it capturing the rumbling and the gliding and the spinning sounds that escape Niall’s mouth. He envisions nights when his sleep is riddled with nightmares, when all he needs is comfort. He envisions retrieving the jar and prying the lid off, only an inch, to let Niall’s hums and lullabies drift into his ears, a refreshingly warm breeze cuddling into and around any dark thoughts. He envisions letting bad dreams float away with the tide of perfect pitch and wonderful sounds in an empty night. Then he comes back to reality. And he only allows himself one moment per day to relish in the exquisiteness of an Irish accent and a hearty laugh.

   Harry likes to sing to Niall, although he believes his own voice a joke in comparison to Niall’s perfection. When his part in Little Things comes up, Harry enjoys directing the lyrics that stream from his mouth to Niall because it’s not like he’s lying. Niall plays along every time and dramatizes a look in Harry’s direction while they harmonize. Harry will never admit how much his mind and heart both sputter and race with just some attention from the person he is completely gone for. He often wonders which needs to be more focused on; the play of the game, or the pain of reality. He decides in the end that neither can exist without the other anyway.

   Too cheesy are the simple comparisons of Niall’s eyes to the ocean or the sky though. Harry believes that a colour placed so wonderfully on the blue sector of the rainbow deserves nothing short of a name all its own. Perhaps there is a fancy Latin word to be used that translates to ‘why the sun rises every morning’ or ‘the light that the dark was made to bring out’. Either way, Harry orbits around Niall’s brilliant globes of cornflower blue like a planet within a solar system, drawn into such a position by an irresistible attraction easily comparable to the scientific splendour called gravitational pull.

  “Great job tonight, Harry.” It’s all casual to Niall, so why has Harry been cursed with this idea that it means something more? With a nod of acknowledgement, a brief but convincing display of pearls arranged in two neat rows, and a muttered return of the compliment, Harry lets the moment pass before a stupid, messy sentence manages to bounce out his throat and off the walls of his mouth.

   Lips are blessings – Harry learned this long ago. Although he occasionally wonders who decided that it was a sign of affection to press one’s slippery mouth against another person’s slippery mouth and allow all sorts of bacteria to intermingle, Harry understands their reasoning now because of Niall’s lips. They are the shy pink of a dusted blush or a cloud of sweet cotton candy, or perhaps the pink of a kitty cat nose. Harry licks at the soft skin that borders his own mouth while dreaming of Niall’s bottom lip, a fuller and plumper version of its partner above, and sucking at it within his mouth. What makes Niall’s lips even worse is the addition of a moist shine that glistens only to tease at Harry and enchant him further.

   On his way to bed that night, Harry ponders how his life would be different if circumstances were modified; if One Direction and all its glory were to crumble and fall away in a dusty mess, leaving Harry and the mere company of Niall in its wake. Perhaps if there was less pressure and more free time and just a little essence of normal in his life, would Harry be more determined to make Niall his? Would he reveal all he feels on a doorstep with red roses in his hand while glorious and refreshing rain poured down upon him? Would he make a grand gesture of announcing his feelings on a windy rooftop; the one he and Niall discovered in the early years of their teenager life and used as they pleased for several years more? Would the Irish boy want him back? Harry knows daydreams and fantasies waste time and only end up hurting whoever comes up with them. But it seems that Harry tends to become far too fixed on something if Niall is in the picture. Unfortunately, this may be why Harry’s mind often drifts away from reality.

* * *

  
   On his tip-toes, Niall is silent as he ventures to Harry’s room. It is long past late and the moon has already reached its peak in the sky and started towards its home beneath the horizon, so Niall knows not one of the boys will be awake. Through the crack that Harry always manages to leave between the door and its frame, Niall can see a figure beneath a duvet at still peace; his spirit far off into an adventure sure to be forgotten when the sky turns from black to blue. A slack arm has been flung across a nose and green eyes, so Niall cannot make out much of his face. However, within a certain radius of Harry, there seems to be a sort of energy; a content, laidback mood that seeps from Harry’s grin and is shaken from the lazy tousle of his hair into the skin and the aura of those around him. Niall has no idea how that mood manages to persist even while Harry lays unconscious and dreaming. The bleach blonde stands there for a while; soaks in the energy until it fills him up and makes him sleepy. He lets it settle in his skin and familiarize with his bones before he casts a final glance at a boy beneath the surreal haze of his freed mind, and Niall returns to his own room for the night. Thinking of a mop of curly hair and precious spheres of vibrant green, Niall wonders how he manages to live like this; so close yet so far away from everything he wants in his life.


End file.
